


What Comes After The End

by koalaxninja



Category: Arthurian Mythology & Adaptations - All Media Types, Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-28
Updated: 2010-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-11 07:06:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalaxninja/pseuds/koalaxninja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end has come. So what happens next?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Comes After The End

The sun was setting, casting brilliant purples and reds and golds across a darkening sky. He tried so hard not to focus on the symbolism, the end of an era, of a legend, but there was little else to occupy his mind. What else was left, but the end. A simple mound of recently dug up ground, a stone marker, all that remained that which had consumed his life. A fading story, a name held in whispers, a kingdom that would shine no more.

Rays caught on the lake, casting a golden glow over the earth. (_The grave_, he refused to think.) The earth was vibrant, the greens and blues of the woods and the water, the skies swirls of colors, creating the richest tapestry mankind would never be able to imitate. In its own way, the world was saying its own farewell, sending off the last of the greats with all the beauty and wonder it could muster.

He was little more than a statue, frozen in place where he had fallen to his knees by the lakeside. His tears had dried, leaving dirty tracks down his face, the eyes that had shed them empty, hollow. With the sun finally beyond the horizon, the heavens took their turn in weeping for the fallen, coating the ground with sobs of rain drops. He paid little attention to the shower, his thoughts consumed with loss. The dawn came, driving away the rain clouds, giving light and warmth, yet where the world had once been vibrant, the colors were dull and gray.

"It can't end," he whispered. His eyes flashed briefly with anger and he looked up at the clear sky. "It wasn't supposed to end!" he yelled.

"All things must end." Hurting and exhausted, he nearly toppled over as he spun to face the new voice, a voice he had never expected to hear again.

He did not recognize the woman standing behind him, except for her eyes. The ageless eyes that had seen everything since the beginning of time. Her dark eyes meeting his blue. Her physical appearance was different, but she was the same, regardless of her form.

"All things must end," she repeated. "Nothing lasts forever. Nothing is meant to."

"You are," he spits bitterly. "I am."

"In the shadows," she says. Her tone is sad, accepting of her fate. "Forgotten. Watching over the people who don't believe in us anymore, those who never knew we existed in the first place."

"Doomed to remember that once we were glorious." The hurt and the anger war within him. The rage threatens to consume him.

"Not doomed," she cries, falling to her knees next to him. She grabs his arm, desperately searches his face, at last catching and holding his gaze. "Never doomed. We are the ones who live on. Who remember the stories, who ensure that future generations, no matter how far they stray from us, will know the stories and the legends that we had a hand in creating."

"Why?" he asked. "They're just stories now. They don't matter anymore."

"No," she said fervently. "That's exactly why they _do_ matter."

He looked away, back across the lake. It was on fire now. The sunrise was casting a golden mist over it, obscuring the deep, still waters. The sky was a brilliant blue, but the woods were shadows, black shapes in the morning light. The overwhelming ache of emptiness consumed him, the grip on his arm the only thing anchoring him to the world.

"As long as the storytellers exist, the world will remember. Details might change, characters forgotten, but the story as a whole will remain intact. The things that we have done and seen are too great to be forgotten. They will survive beyond their characters. We are the ones who ensure this."

They remained there, on the cold, wet ground for what seemed like an eternity. For all he was aware, it was an eternity, entire generations coming and going in the world around him, outside of this forgotten lake and away from the last remains of a legend. The sun was high, but all he felt were the shadows. The shadows of a banner that had once flown proud, the shadows of greatness. The shadows of loss.

"We are all immortal, so long as there remains a ready story teller and an eager listener." She spoke in whispers now, the sanctity of the grove compelling even her.

"It was more than a story," he utters. "What we did. It was far more than a simple story. It was a legend. It was a life."

"So prove it." There was a soft rustle of leaves and the grip left his arm. She was gone. His retort died on his lips, leaving him with a heavy sigh.

It was dark before he rose again, walking stiffly over to stone marker, still steadfastly refusing the term _grave_. Crouching next to the stone, he gently caressed its smooth surface, memorizing the details of the spot with his eyes and hands. There were no elaborate carvings, no details of who lay beneath the earth. Just a stone, as strong and as perfect, yet flawed as the one it now represented.

"That was a dare, you know," he said idly to the earth. "She dared me to not give up here, at the end of all things. A little arrogant, don't you think? I mean, why does she always get to tell me what to do? Reminds me of you. Don't think I mean that as a compliment either."

With a sigh, he withdrew his hand from the stone, using it instead to prop his chin as he leaned back, staring gloomily at the unresponsive dirt and stone before him. He was reluctant to move, to walk away, to leave behind the last remains of all he had ever known. There was an entire world waiting for him, but it all felt so empty. These woods held all the pieces that had once made him whole, and as soon as he left, there would be no turning back. He was a broken man, in no hurry to be separated from what he had lost, but he knew, without a doubt, that to lie down and give up now would be the final destruction of a rich, full life. He would not be the one to make it worthless.

It took a great effort, but he gathered his legs beneath him, stood over the disturbed earth. It would not be long before even this, the grave (a shudder coursed through him as he finally acknowledged the dreaded word), would return to the earth, forgotten beneath the unmarked stone. It felt wrong to be the one standing tall in the sunlight, whereas he was still, laying beneath the earth in the dark. He almost fell back to the ground as the memories overwhelmed him, but a hidden strength kept him upright, made his feet move across the grass, and out of the shelter of the trees. He did not look back.

Outside of the woods, the sunlight hit him full on. The world was still turning. He was more surprised by this than he should have been. One death did not cause the end of the world -- just his. But now it was time for him to create a new world, a new life. The first steps were difficult, but it was easier the further he walked. As loath as he was to admit it, she had been right. The stories would keep them alive. They were all he had, and while the past would cry him to sleep during the long nights, he could feel a new life forming, one just as fulfilling as the last. Except now, instead of creating a legend, he would be maintaining it. For now, it was enough.

A few days later, he reached a village. It was small and simple, much like any other village of its size. Workers tended to the surrounding fields, merchants passed through, selling their wares alongside outside gossip. People fell in love, petty feuds were settled before the peace could be disrupted, and the children ran through it all, oblivious to the hardships life would soon be presenting them, content for now with the innocence of youthful freedom.

"Look!" A small boy, dirty and scruffy, eyes shining with that spark of life and mischievousness he knew so well, pointed in his direction while tugging at his mother's skirts. "Look, Ma, a stranger!"

"It's rude to point," the boy's mother scolded lightly, not glancing up from her laundry.

"But, Ma!" the boy pouted.

"She's right, you know," he said, patting the boy on the head. "It's rude to point. But I'm used to it."

"You don't look like a peddler," the boy said.

"I'm something much better than a peddler," he whispered, crouching down to meet the boy at eye level. "I'm a storyteller." The boy's eyes widened in excitement.

"Will you tell me a story?" he asked eagerly.

"I most certainly will." He stood up again, brushing at his pant legs. "Go and gather up your friends. This is a story that must be shared with all the young boys and girls."

As the boy scampered off, his mother looked up warily, eyeing him, distrust in her eyes.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"As I said, mum," he spread his hands, offering no threat. "I am a storyteller."

"A storyteller of what?"

He could hear the eager shouts of the young children running towards him, the little boy he had sent off in search of them leading the charge. A few curious adults were following the crowd of children as well, interested in hearing this stranger's tale. He smiled at the woman, only a trace of grief visible amongst the determination and rediscovered life in his face.

"Of the once and future."


End file.
